


Cold, Comfort

by echoist



Category: Primeval
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becker isn't exactly thrilled to discover what the team got up to in his absence. Tag to 5.02, bit of a parallel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/295022">Creature Comfort</a>.</p><p>Also, I entirely made up Becker's older sister, she's just a part of my bizarre Primeval head-canon. Carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold, Comfort

Becker slammed Anderson's report down on the linoleum table top in front of Connor. Piping hot coffee sloshed over the rim of his styrofoam cup to spill across his sandwich and threaten his hoodie, which, Connor supposed, had probably been clean last Tuesday. Possibly. Connor opened his mouth to complain that he'd just bought the sandwich, and there weren't any more of the sort he liked in the dispenser when Becker beat him to the punch. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, leaning further over the table than seemed absolutely necessary to point forcefully at the document.

“It's a folder with some papers in?” Connor attempted a smile while mopping up his coffee. “A folder that's about to get wet, if you don't move it.”

“I'm gone for two days.” Becker stabbed the air with a fingertip for emphasis. “ _Two days_.”

“Right, your sister's birthday,” Connor offered with false cheer, failing at playing politic. “How is Billie? Still twenty-nine, as usual?”

“Not even forty-eight hours,” Becker soldiered on, choosing to ignore Connor's commentary on his family, “and not only do you end up 160 metres under the North Sea in an Upholder-class submarine, you also happen to take a day trip to the late Jurassic. Without power. And just to keep things interesting, it seems there was a therapod on board eating the crew – “ Becker stopped for a moment, his right hand hanging in the air above the table. “Connor, how did a _raptor_ end up on a nuclear submarine?”

“That's the real question in all of this, isn't it?” Connor mused. “No idea,” he said, finally, returning his attention to his (now) slightly soggy sandwich. “Oh,” he mumbled around a mouthful of peanut butter, “don't forget the Liopleurodons.” Becker blinked, his jaw working silently. “There were loads of them. They wanted to eat us, too. Guess we looked especially tasty that day.”

Becker turned around, surveying the tiny dining hall with one hand on his hip. “Honestly, how do these things happen to you?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Connor opined with a shrug, taking another bite of his hybrid coffee-and-peanut butter sandwich. “It's not like I go around trying to get devoured by raptors and pliosaurs and -”

“You're missing the point!” Becker sniped.

“Which is?” Connor replied, the end of the phrase trailing up into a higher register and dangling there.

“The last time I took a personal day, you and Abby were nearly eaten by a rogue labyrinthodont, which is bad enough, but this time? You decide to take the chaos up a level and cause an international incident!”

“Oh, all by myself, did I?” Connor threw back, one eyebrow raised.

“I've no doubt you could have done,” Becker assured him.

“You think the Admiralty take orders from me, now, do you?” Connor asked, an unfamiliar edge invading his tone. “Well I hope the promotion comes with a corner office and a huge upgrade in pay, because frankly, mate, with the kind of hours I've been putting in lately, I deserve it.” Becker matched him, stare for stare, for a long moment before drawing back. His eyes cast about, seeking a safe target, and settled on the report – now wet and crinkly with spilled coffee.

“Oh, of all the stupid -” Becker sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“Told you it would get wet,” Connor shrugged. “Not my fault you were too busy yelling at me to notice.”

“I wasn't -” Becker began, suddenly conscious of his volume. “I didn't mean to yell,” he amended, somewhat more quietly. “It just seems like I can't turn my back for even a moment or catastrophe rains down from the heavens.”

“Yeah, that's kind of what we _do_ , Becker!” Connor griped wearily. “The worst case scenario is always our job, in case you'd forgotten.”

Becker stilled, coffee dripping onto the linoleum from the soaked documents in his hand. “I don't need reminding of my job description,” he said quietly. “Not from you.”

Connor heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes at the sudden drop in temperature. His coffee was likely to turn to ice before he could finish it. “Look, what I'm trying to say is - catastrophe falls on all our heads whether you're here to hold the umbrella or not.” He paused, frowning. “Ok, that was a really bad metaphor, but you get the idea. And better us, all prepared and expecting it, than some family out in Kenley or Tadworth who never asked for a dinosaur in their backyard.”

“I didn't ask for this post either,” Becker reminded him.

“Yeah,” Connor said, stretching the word out far longer than was strictly necessary. “How did you end up with a bunch of trouble-magnets like us, anyway?” He flashed Becker a cheeky grin. “Always meant to ask you that.”

“Don't change the subject,” Becker scolded, trying to hide the beginnings of an answering smile.

“All right, then,” Connor said cautiously, soggy remnants of his lunch forgotten. “What exactly do you think would have been so different if you'd been on the boat with us, instead of drinking tea in Bristol?”

“Dammit, Connor, I would have _been there_!” Becker exclaimed, hands raised in emphasis. A sheaf of papers flew out from the folder and scattered in all directions, scuttling across the floor. Becker shut his eyes and turned his head, taking in a deep, audible breath. Connor sat for a moment, slightly stunned, before scurrying after the wayward pages. Becker crouched down, plucking them up and replacing them in the folder with sharp, angry motions. 

“Billie doesn't even like tea,” he muttered, frustration breaking his words into tiny, jagged-edged syllables. 

“What?” Connor asked, looking up from the mess in utter bewilderment. 

“I wasn't drinking tea, I was drinking rather a lot of scotch and feeling miserable.” Becker let the explanation stand on its own merits, reaching out for the last escaped page. Connor's fingers reached it at the same moment, brushing lightly across Becker's hand. He drew back hastily, but Becker remained hunched over the page, eyes fixed on the miniscule print marching across it like ants. “I _worry_ about you,” he admitted, without looking up.

Connor swallowed hard, studying the lines the past two years had drawn across Becker's face. He wished more of them had been from laughter than from worry and guilt. He did wish, too, that he could smooth them all away with the right word, a timely joke. Sometimes, he even thought he might could do it with a touch, but his mind skittered uncomfortably away from those thoughts in the light of day. When he wasn't quite tired enough, or restless enough, to sustain them. 

“Well,” Connor ventured after a long moment. “It's nice to have someone who does.” A small laugh slipped from Becker's mouth, almost as if he'd dropped it by accident, and he looked away. Connor slipped the page out from beneath Becker's hand and slid it back into the folder, still lying open on the floor. He closed the binder with a snap then rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his corduroys. “I should just, ah, get back to work.”

“Right,” Becker agreed, collecting the folder and tapping it against his open palm. Connor hesitated a moment before extending a hand, and Becker took it, letting his teammate pull him to his feet. If Connor didn't let go quite so immediately as he should, well, neither did Becker. They both stood awkwardly close for a moment, shifting their weight, the world grown small around them. A humming started up in Connor's ears, his skin suddenly too tight and not enough air filling his lungs. He dropped Becker's hand, shuffled back a few steps and nodded, brushing his fingers through his unkempt hair to clear them of the static.

“Thanks,” Becker murmured, tapping his fingers across the folder. A group of technicians passed by the doorway, their conversation loud and unimportant. In their wake, the ambient clatter rushed in to fill the negative space, edging them out. Becker left the room like a shot, and Connor gathered up the clutter from his ruined lunch. He didn't mind so much, he reckoned. It had been nice, for once, not to eat alone.


End file.
